Spring Showers
by keru.m
Summary: A rainy Sunday.


Disclaimer: Don't own much, let alone this.

A/N: I wrote this rather quickly and it's pretty brief and fluffy, but if I don't post it I'll just keep reading and revising it when I have loads of work to do. I did proofread, but do forgive any errors.

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**Spring Showers**

"There. Done." Harm punctuated his sentence with a heavy, longsuffering sigh. He leaned back against the couch. "Finally."

"Thanks for helping out with this, Harm," Mac dropped the last file onto the coffee table. She patted his knee as she also slouched back into the cushions.

"Don't thank me, Mac." He replied with only just a little bit of petulance. "If my witness hadn't skipped town to elope with his underage girlfriend, I wouldn't be here with you and this godless pile of paperwork."

"You are just a sore loser, Harmon Rabb. I kicked your six on that case, fair and square."

Harm snorted eloquently, "Fair and square. I had it in the bag."

"Like I said," The sparkle in her eye belied the sweetness of her smile. "You are a sore loser."

It would probably be best to just let her gloat for a while, to get it out of her system. But it would also be less fun.

"Don't get used to this, MacKenzie." His competitive side was ignited by the smugness in her expression. "Next week, you're going down."

"Let's bet on it," She was all cockiness and defiance. The thrill of the challenge made his heart beat just a little faster. Her grin widened. "I'm feeling lucky."

"Loser cleans the winner's apartment."

"That's weak." She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. "We're both almost compulsively clean."

"For three months," He lifted an eyebrow, daring her to accept.

"You're on." She didn't even hesitate.

"I'm going to enjoy watching you vacuum my floors," He amped up his arrogance just to goad her.

"Mine are in need of a good scrubbing," She met him blow for blow.

They stared each other down. He couldn't look away.

A flash of lightening lit up the room in a harsh white bolt, followed immediately by a thunderous boom.

He looked around the living room, startled, breaking their battle of wills. For a moment, he wondered if the lightening and thunder had been produced inside the apartment, by their exchange. The loud patter of raindrops on the window pane quickly dismissed that notion, and he felt more than a little silly for even considering it.

Mac stood up, heading towards the windows, thankfully oblivious to the course of his thoughts.

"Harm, it's raining cats and dogs outside. Why don't you wait until it lets up a bit before heading home? It should only be a few minutes."

He shrugged. Why not. Sitting here with Mac certainly beat getting drenched trying to get home. "Alright. If you don't mind."

"Don't be ridiculous." She turned to face him. The concern in her voice was replaced by mischief, "Besides, it'll give me a chance to show you where I keep my cleaning supplies."

He shook his head at her, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. "We'll see."

And with that, he leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes, getting the last word. His satisfaction at that small victory faded however, as the apartment filled with the loud, thrumming beat of raindrops hitting the windowpanes. Lightening flashed again, followed by thunder. It sounded like quite a storm. He listened to the softer patter of Mac's feet against the hardwood. The sofa cushion shifted as she sat next to him. He sighed softly. He loved the sound of rain, of thunderstorms.

"I love thunderstorms," She said, her voice low and intimate, wove through the heavy, drumming rain.

He smiled at how she echoed his thoughts, and turned his head to look at her. Her eyes were closed, her body comfortably nestled in the big, soft cushions on her couch.

"Me too."

She opened her eyes to catch him watching her. A slow grin lit up her eyes and the room. He couldn't look away. He wondered what would happen if he kissed her.

She turned to stare up at the ceiling before he could decide whether he wanted to find out.

"Rainy Sundays." Her voice sounded familiar, full of secrets and promises. "It's perfect weather for making..." She hesitated.

A flash of déjà vu flared through him, just as lightening again lit up the room. His brain worked in double time, half praying for her to say the same words she had said in the admiral's office all those ages ago, half begging for it.

"...cake."

He did a double take, the kind that gave mental whiplash. _Cake_?

"_Cake_?" He repeated dumbly. She was supposed to say love.

"Hmm," A slow nod, and a shimmering smile accompanied her answer. "My grandmother used to bake a fresh cake whenever there was a thunderstorm. We'd eat it, still hot from the oven. It was moist and steamy and the stuff of heaven. Whenever it rains I get this craving for steaming hot cake." Her eyes drifted shut, lost in memory, a look near rapture on her face.

"Let's bake a cake then," He found himself offering. Although he was pretty sure there were at least a few things – probably a dozen, no a couple dozen – he could do to make her feel the kind of ecstasy she apparently associated with warm cake on a rainy day.

Her eyes popped open. She stared at him, uncertain whether to take him seriously.

"I'm serious, Mac." He insisted, now determined. If she wanted cake so much she actually willingly shared a part of her childhood with him, then the least he could do was help her make cake. "Do you have the ingredients?"

"I'm sure I do." A thoughtful frown creased her brow. "It's just a simple white cake."

"Great." He stood up, and offered her a hand.

"I didn't know you bake." Caught up as she was with the idea of baking a cake, she absently allowed him to pull her up and lead her to the kitchen, his hand still clasping hers.

"I don't."

She blinked. "But..."

"How hard can it be?" He let go of her hand – admittedly with some reluctance – and began searching her cupboards. "We'll just follow the recipe and keep you far, far away from anything other than cracking eggs."

"Funny," She said, her tone indicating the opposite.

Lightening flashed, thunder boomed and rain beat a tattoo as he pulled out the flour and milk and eggs and sugar, setting them all on the kitchen table. For her part, Mac stood on her toes, reaching up to open the cupboard above the fridge. He watched on with rising curiosity. She pulled out an old wooden box from a cupboard.

"What's that?" He asked.

"Recipes I'd written down whenever my grandmother cooked while I was over." She removed the lid and began digging.

"I thought you didn't cook."

"I don't." She said, still intent on the contents of her box. "Here it is!" She pulled a battered index card from the box, waving it in the air victoriously before setting it down on the table next to the ingredients.

It was her recipe for cake. He had to smile at the childish script that filled the index card.

"I was nine when I wrote that," She explained.

"It's cute," He teased, overtaken by a swell of affection for the woman beside him. "You were a terrible speller."

"Well, not all of us went to private school," She bantered back, her tone carefree and happy. "Besides, my grandmother had a pretty thick accent."

He laughed at her reply as he read through the recipe. Meanwhile, she set out the baking dishes and implements they needed to make cake.

"Alright," He said, rolling up his sleeves. "I'll measure out the flour—"

"I'll crack the eggs!" She said, giddy with excitement.

"You crack the eggs," He grinned as he reached for the bag of flour, deciding that her unaffected exuberance was infectious.

"Be careful with that," She warned as he tilted the bag to pour flour into the measuring cup. "The bag has a te—"

"I'll be fine, Mac," He interjected. "I've spent more time in the kitchen this last week than you have all month."

He tipped the bag over, one hand on the bottom, the other gripping the top of the bag. He heard a ripping sound right before the bag fell from his hands and onto the table with a thud. Half the floor shot out of the bag, creating a small cloud of white smoke.

"Harm!" She exclaimed, a still un-cracked egg held limply in her hand.

"The bag tore." He defended reflexively, taken aback by the mess he'd just made and worried she'd be upset. Both his hands were covered in flour, making it look like he was wearing gloves.

"I tried to tell you there was a tear near the top of the bag," She looked from the flour-covered table to his face. Instead of being angry, to his surprise, she was taking a wry pleasure in the scene. "But you've spent more time in the kitchen this last week than I have in ... oh, what was it now? A month?"

And that was a provocation if he ever heard one. He slowly set down the bag of floor. "You'll regret that." It was less a threat, more a promise.

"I regret all the cakes that died in your senseless accident."

She'd just declared war.

"That's it, you asked for it." He grabbed her by the arm and rubbed his flour-covered hand across her cheek and then through her hair, covering both in a sheen of flour.

"Harm!" She yelped, jumping back, staring at him in disbelief. "My hair!"

It was his turn to take a devilish pleasure in the situation. "Ha!"

Her surprise transformed into indignation. She eyed the egg in her hand. Before he could react, her hand shot out and she cracked the egg against his forehead. He felt the shell break and the slimy egg-stuff drip down his nose. He quickly wiped his hand over his face, before it could reach his mouth.

"Mac!" He cried, not even able to process this development. "My face!"

"It's good for your complexion," Her grin was diabolical with vindication.

He did the only thing he could: he scooped a handful of flour and threw it at her. It exploded over her face in a very satisfying way.

"Harm!" She sputtered, coughing flour. He laughed, and scooped another handful. Before he could throw it, she grabbed the bag of flour, hooked her foot behind his knee and jerked it, sending him falling to the ground. He shot out a hand to grab her and managed to both get most of the flour that had been in his hand on her face, and bring her toppling down on top of him. He let out a cry of victory just as she dumped the entire bag of flour on him. It filled his mouth and his vision. Everything went white. It was his turn to cough.

Through his own fit of coughing, he felt her shaking and worried she might be choking on the sheer amount of flour. He tried to sit up, but she remained lying on top of him, pinning him to the ground. That was when it registered that she wasn't coughing, but laughing.

"Mac!" He scolded, still not able to see anything but white. And to think he'd been worried about her.

"You ... you look..." She could barely speak through her laughter. "Look like Casper! The friendly ghost!" She kept laughing. "And the egg! It's clumping the flour!"

He blinked in disbelief, staring up at her. To think that not even an hour ago she'd said the two of them were compulsively clean. He shook his head at how crazy this was. But as she lay on top of him, laughing with an abandon he didn't think he'd ever heard from her, the hilarity of the situation caught up to him and he found himself laughing too.

Minutes later, he felt her begin to calm, her laughter turning into a contented, deep breathing. She rested her forehead on his chest, causing him to chuckle.

"You'll get more flour on your face," He said softly. He tucked her hair behind her ear so he could better see her face.

She was smiling.

"Don't think that's possible."

He grinned. "We made a mess."

"You made a mess."

"I think you helped." They both laughed.

She lifted her head to look at him. "It's still raining."

He tuned his attention to things other than a flour-covered Mac, and heard the patter of raindrops on the windowpane, though it sounded much gentler. "I think the worst of the storm is over." He winked at her. "I think I can head home now."

She crossed her arms over his chest, resting her chin on her hands as she watched him. "Your hair is white."

"So's yours."

She pulled herself up so that her face was closer to his. He tried to ignore the soft friction of her body moving up his. Her hand plowed through his hair, sending a cloud of fine white particles into the air. She laughed, and he rolled his eyes pretending to be annoyed. It only made her laugh harder, which made her look even more lovely; covered in white flour with eyes sparkling.

He trailed a finger down her cheek, smudging a trail through the flour coating her skin. This was going to take ages to clean up.

He realized that she was watching him, her dark eyes quiet, warm. Surrounded by a ridiculous amount of flour. He grinned. She was beautiful. He couldn't look away. He thought of any number of things that could break this moment, and lifted his head to hers before any of them actually materialized. She met him halfway, flour-covered lips meeting in a kiss.

She pulled away far too quickly, laughter in her eyes. "Gross."

His eyes widened in surprise. "Gross?" He'd never gotten that reaction before.

"You taste like flour, some of it soggy with egg." She was grinning, her fingers tracing the slope of his nose, and then his lips.

He laughed. "How about we clean up, and then we see if you still think I'm gross."

"Deal." She pushed herself off him, and offered him a hand. He took it. Flour fell from his clothes onto the floor as he stood up. They exchanged an amused smile, but his was quick to fade when he caught sight of the beginnings of their attempt at baking.

"You didn't get your cake," He rubbed his hand behind his neck, feeling terrible about it. "I can pick up some flour later, when we're done with the cleaning."

She brushed some flour off his shirt, a futile action really. There was just so much of it.

"That's alright," She gave him a sweet smile. "I like this better."

A grin threatened to split his face. He pulled her into a tight hug, raindrops tapping against the window. "The weather is perfect for this," He whispered in her ear, "Perfect for love."

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the end


End file.
